


Firecat

by Soprano



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Case Fic, Catlock, Fire Powers, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:25:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soprano/pseuds/Soprano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In every reality, Holmes and Watson are bound to find each other. In every reality they are unique, unusual individuals. In some more so than in others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The case was closed, or rather solved – the killer still needed to be apprehended, processed, all that stuff that Sherlock had absolutely no interest in. His work was done, and so he was on his way home. The Underground station was practically deserted, and only one other person was on the train Sherlock took. That was until 5 thugs poured themselves inside two stations later, moderately drunk, obviously looking for a fight.  
“Lookie-lookie what we have here!” One of them exclaimed.  
Sherlock took a deep breath and rolled his eyes.  
“A proper kitty cat.” Another inebriated voice chimed in. “Shouldn’t you be at home, licking milk off a plate?”  
“Don’t be silly, mate. He’s obviously an outside cat!”  
A roar of laughter broke out. This was ordinarily where Sherlock would verbally smear his offenders against a nearby wall, but even his fiery tongue was tamed by the indomitable sense of self-preservation. This was not, as they say, his first rodeo. Sherlock had been attacked, insulted, bullied, mocked, made fun of and beaten up on various occasions throughout his entire life. Such was the existence of a Felidien in a world that was mostly occupied by regular humans. Nevermind their legal equality or the fact that they were not any more dangerous than any other human variety. There would always be mean kids at playgrounds, discriminative teachers, sadistic schoolmates, drunk thugs on trains. Overtime, Sherlock learned that the safest way to deal with them was to keep his mouth shut and hope that their attacks would not get past the verbal kind. Of course, a variety of scars was there to prove that that was a luck far less common than one would hope.  
“Hey, show me your teeth, eh?” One of the drunk gang slurred out.  
Sherlock glanced at the doors. The train was about to stop at the next station, but the thugs were in the way. He could only hope their interest in him would dissipate once they understood that baiting him wasn’t getting them anywhere. He rose from his seat and headed towards the door.  
“Hey, hey, hey, where are you going, little pussy?”  
That elicited another burst of laughter, and two of the thugs were now purposefully blocking the way to the doors. It was not Sherlock’s lucky day.  
For lack of other options, he began assessing the situation. The intoxication of his opponents worked both for and against him. Their motor functions were hindered and vision blurred. At the same time, they were not slowed down by fear and would likely be less responsive to physical pain. One of the men had a resent leg injury, given away by a slight limp. Another was rather obese, which would likely make his movements less swift. Sadly, those were all the advantages Sherlock had. For a moment he considered swallowing the remainders of his pride and politely asking the men to allow him to leave, but quickly abandoned the idea as none of the previously exhibited behavior suggested that anything of the sort would have the desired effect.  
The situation was quite grim. Five against one. The only other person on the train was asleep at a significant distance, a walking stick resting beside him. Perhaps, he wouldn’t be much help conscious either. Not that anyone in their right mind would try to break up a fight with such horrific odds.  
One of the drunks reached out for Sherlock’s head.  
“Come on, show us your teeth.”  
Sherlock’s ears flattened out in anger as he stepped away to avoid the man’s touch.  
“Ooooo!” Was a collective reaction of the drunks.  
The doors opened and closed. No new passengers entered. It really, really wasn’t Sherlock’s lucky day.  
“Okay, kitty, we’ve been real nice to you.” One of the less intoxicated thugs proclaimed in a menacing tone. “But you’re not being very cooperative. How about we teach you a lesson?”  
They inched closer until finally backing Sherlock into a wall. That may have seemed like an advantage to them, but was entirely planned on Sherlock’s part. When the first punch was finally launched towards Sherlock’s gut, he swerved out of the way, allowing the attacker to punch the wall behind him, instantly fracturing 3 fingers.  
While the others were distracted by this unexpected turn of events, Sherlock grabbed one of them by the neck and smashed his head into a metal pole.  
Unfortunately, that still meant 3 thugs coming at him, not to mention that the others would likely soon renew their efforts with fresh vigor.  
The most sober of the gang attacked first. Sherlock dodged his punches expertly, cracking a few ribs and dislocating the man’s jaw in the process.  
That, however, was his last triumph in that particular battle, as the rest of the drunks finally gathered their wits enough to realize that he could hardly effectively fight them off if they attacked simultaneously. And while he certainly got a few punches in and left some scratches that would form into permanent scars, in the end he was pinned to the wall, receiving blows to various parts of his body. Finally, the thug with the broken fingers decided to return the favor and delivered a full-force kick, crushing Sherlock’s tail between his boot and the hard metal of the wall behind him.  
A bone-chilling, deafening howl tore its way out of Sherlock’s throat. It’s hard to tell whether the thugs were aware of the heightened sensitivity of Felidien tails. Perhaps, they simply went for what annoyed them most. But they were certainly pleased with the result.  
“You freaks think you can just stroll around our streets like you belong.” One of the drunks snarled as he delivered another punch into Sherlock’s stomach. “Should have just stayed in your nest, kitty.”  
“Cats don’t live in nests, you moron.” A new, sober, unexpected voice came from behind the thugs. Sherlock’s agonized scream had finally woken up the only other passenger on the train. And he was apparently insane enough to join in the fun.  
The thug currently in charge of beating up their victim froze mid-punch.  
“Looking for trouble, mate?”  
Three of the thugs now started circling the good Samaritan.  
“Are _you_?” The confidence in the man’s voice was almost disconcerting.  
Sherlock glanced at him through half-swollen eyes. A doctor, ex-military, discharged because of an injury, now working at a hospital. Wonderful. A wounded healer. Just what you need in a fight against 5 drunk ruffians.  
But there was something else. The man, small, shorter than all of the thugs now preparing to beat him to a pulp, was completely confident. He stood straight, arms at his sides, not a hint of fear in his body. Like he had a fool-proof plan.  
Of course… Sherlock smiled internally.  
“We’re just teaching little kitty a lesson here.”  
“What’s that? That you’re a complete idiot? I’m pretty sure he knew that from the start.” The man’s unapologetic sass was hardly amusing to the thugs.  
“You have a death wish or something?” The soberest thug gave the man his last warning before launching a fist at his face. The man dodged, utilizing his relatively small height to duck below the attacker’s swing, simultaneously delivering a blow to his solar plexus. He then straightened himself behind the thug. He was no longer surrounded, now facing the entire gang with a steal expression on his face. There was no fear and no hesitation, only perhaps a hint of anger and disgust.  
The two thugs that were holding Sherlock against the wall finally let him go to concentrate on a new target. Sherlock slid to the floor with a quiet whimper.  
The entire gang was now moving towards the smaller man. The confined space of a tube train was working in their favor. Or so they thought.  
“So…” Their sole opponent ran his gaze over the snarling crowd before him. “Do you attack all freaks?” He raised his left hand to chest level, fingers curled up slightly as if holding something up. “Or just the ones that can’t set you on fire?”  
A flame burst out of his palm, and the whole gang instinctively took a step back. In their position, a smart man would leave. But they were neither smart nor sober enough to properly use whatever intelligence they did possess. So, after a moment of hesitation, one of them launched forward, only to be met with a ball of fire thrown at his feet.  
There’s only so much pain being drunk can save you from. And realizing that you are, for all intents and purposes, on fire will sober out pretty much anyone. The flaming man reacted to this new development by yelling and running around the train.  
“Drop and roll.” His opponent yelled after him. He was a doctor, after all.  
One would think this was enough for the others to seize their attempts at taking the man down. But they were apparently even dumber than is easily imaginable.  
Another two threw themselves at him. One received a blow to the throat. The other managed to get behind their enemy and attempted to choke him with his arm. That tactic, however, proved unsuccessful when the neck under his chokehold turned orange with heat, quickly burned through the attacker’s clothing and promptly began burning the skin beneath it. The thug let go, cradling his arm in shock and backing away with a wobble.  
As a final proclamation of his resolve, the good Samaritan lit up both of his hands and glanced at the thugs with a silent challenge.  
As soon as the doors opened, they fled the train and didn’t stop running for a very long time.  
Once he was sure that the threat was gone, the man extinguished the fire in his palms and turned his attention to the injured man on the floor.  
“Is anything broken? Please, let me help, I’m a doctor.” He checked his new patient over, assessing the damage. “Can you walk?”  
Sherlock nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure whether he actually could walk or not. But there was hardly much of a choice. He allowed the doctor to help him to his feet. A growl of pain that came out of Sherlock made the doctor wince. He’d seen far worse injuries in his life, but there was always something particularly disturbing about wounds created by pure unfiltered human cruelty. However bad war was, it was a setting where fighting and injury were inherent and expected, and most of the people the doctor tended to in action were at least moderately prepared for battle. That did not make their wounds matter or hurt any less. But seeing someone brutalized for no good reason in a place that was supposed to be perfectly safe was just its own brand of infuriating.  
Sherlock was covered in cuts and bruises, 3 of his ribs were fractured, there was a small tear in one of his ears. But, of course, the most severe injury was to his tail.  
“My hospital is just a few stations away, it’s best I just walk you to it.” The doctor informed while crafting a makeshift sling from his scarf for his patient’s tail. Then he pulled out his phone and called the hospital to make sure they’d be met at the station entrance with a gurney.  
When they finally arrived at their station, the doctor helped Sherlock up from the seat and carefully lead him out of the train and towards the hospital.  
“I’m John Watson, by the way.”  
“Sherlock Holmes.”  
“Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes.”  
“And very lucky of me to have met you, Dr Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some crappy art-like things of mine:  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

After what seemed like forever, Dr Watson finally returned with X-ray results. Though he tried to hide his emotions, it was rather obvious that the news was not of the joyous variety.  
“Not good?” Sherlock prompted.  
“I’m afraid not.” Watson held up the image. “Two vertebrae are cracked and some bone fragments have shifted.”  
“What are the options?”  
“Well, one is doing nothing. Allowing the tail to heal naturally. But considering the damage, even if infection doesn’t enter the picture, there’s a high chance of paralysis.” Watson took a deep breath. “Another option is amputation. Immediate post-op discomfort aside, that’s probably the only option without a prolonged period of painful rehabilitation.”  
“None of that sounds like much of a solution.”  
“The third option is surgery to repair the damage, then fixation for 2 months and physical therapy. There’s still risk of both paralysis and amputation, but if the surgery goes well, there’s about a 75% chance of complete recovery.”  
Sherlock considered the options for only a few seconds.  
“Then let’s do that.”  
“It will be very painful.”  
“I realize that.”  
“I will schedule the surgery immediately.”  
Dr Watson turned around to leave, but froze in his tracks when he saw a woman with a walker slowly making her way down the hall.  
“My cane…” He suddenly remembered. “I left it on the train.”  
“Ah, yes.” Holmes moved uncomfortably on his bed, unable to find a position that didn’t hurt. “Your psycho-somatic limp.”  
“My…how…excuse me?” Watson went from shocked to confused to mildly offended in under a second.  
“I’d noticed your cane when you were asleep, but you exhibited no signs of leg problems during your fight with the drunks, nor when you helped me to the hospital. Even considering the possibility of an adrenalin rush suppressing a real physiological problem, it would have worn off by now, and yet, look at you. Standing firmly and surely on both legs.”  
“I…” Watson lowered his gaze with a hint of shame. “I suppose my therapist was right then.”  
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Dr Watson. War can cause different kinds of wounds. And ones perpetuated by our own minds are not to be taken lightly.”  
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Watson nodded in contemplation. “Wait, how did you know I was in a war?”  
“You’re a doctor, and not just for the puzzles of surgeries or the heroic credit, certainly not for the money as is evidenced by you minimalistic on-a-budget attire. You’re one of those physicians that genuinely wish to help people, you express compassion and offer comfort. A man like that is unlikely to possess significant fighting skills that you’ve demonstrated on the train, unless he had to. Now, it could be that you grew up in a bad neighborhood, but coupled with your posture and haircut, the most likely conclusion is military training. The exposed parts of your skin are darker than those hidden by clothing. At first I thought that was an effect produced by your pyrokinesis, but upon closer inspection I’ve concluded that those are tan lines, which suggests a recent trip abroad, but one which did not involve sunbathing. More likely, a military deployment. You’re left-handed, and yet you perform a lot of tasks with your right arm, favoring your dominant side as if overusing it causes you discomfort. An injury is a probable cause. Wounded in action. Most likely conclusion: recent participation in a military conflict, Afghanistan or Iraq, perhaps; sent home due to injury.”  
“That is…incredible.”  
“You think?” Holmes looked at his doctor with genuine surprise.  
“Of course, that is stunning. How do you do that?”  
“It’s simple observation, really. Certainly not ‘feline witchcraft’, as has been suggested by some.”  
Watson giggled wholeheartedly.  
“I’m afraid I really have to leave you now. I need to contact the surgeon that will perform your surgery. Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything, Mr Holmes.”  
“Thank you, doctor. And please, call me Sherlock. I believe you’ve earned that right when you set my attackers on fire.”  
Another doctor approached them at that moment.  
“You set someone on fire?” He looked at Watson in surprise.  
“Ah, yes, it’s a…long story.”  
“Really…what you were in a bar brawl and you just pulled out a lighter and threw it in someone’s face?”  
“Something like that.” Watson dodged.  
“Oh, is this the man you saved?” The doctor nodded at Sherlock to acknowledge his presence, then quickly turned his attention back to Watson. “The whole hospital is buzzing about how you called in and carried a wounded man like a veritable hero.”  
“That’s a bit of an exaggeration.”  
“Ah, don’t be modest, Watson.” The man wrapped his arm around Watson’s shoulders, which clearly made him rather uncomfortable. “Do you need any help with that?” He pointed at Sherlock’s injured tail.  
“No, Dr Greyson will be taking care of that.”  
“Alright. Well, I’ll see you later then.”  
The man left, and Watson let out a sigh of relief.  
“You don’t think he’s competent enough to perform my surgery?” Sherlock inquired.  
“I…” Watson hesitated for a moment. “He’s a good enough professional, it’s just that…” He hesitated some more, but Sherlock kept his eyes locked on him in a silent question. “He’s a bigot, okay? He doesn’t think a tail is as important as an arm or a leg, and I’ve heard him say some rather unpleasant things about Felidiens when he was drunk. So, yes, I’d rather he didn’t perform your surgery.”  
A faint smile ran over Sherlock’s face, but was quickly replaced by a far more serious expression.  
“You’re hiding your powers.” A note of guilt crept into his voice. Sherlock was not one to apologize unless his guilt was truly great. This was, perhaps, such a case. “I am sorry if I’ve inadvertently exposed your secret.”  
“It’s fine. He probably won’t figure it out anyway.”  
While Felidiens were fairly common, comprising almost 11% of the world’s population, which got them their own subspecies classification – Felidae sapiens; superpowered humans were a considerably rarer breed. Only about 3% of people had such mutations. And they scared the ordinary humans far more than people with tails and cat ears. There was nothing magical about those power. Usually they were just intensified capabilities of regular humans – heightened strength, speed, temperature control. But they could be dangerous, they weren’t immediately obvious, and so they were scary. Which is why most people that possessed such powers were forced to hide them.  
“Why do you live with him then?” Sherlock asked Watson before the doctor finally had the chance to leave.  
Watson raised his eyebrows in astonishment. He really wanted to ask Holmes exactly how he knew that, but he really needed to go schedule that surgery.  
“Don’t really have a choice. Can’t afford a flat in London on my own.”  
Sherlock’s face lit up, as though a brilliant idea just crossed his mind. But before he could say anything, Watson nodded at him respectfully and took his leave.


	3. Chapter 3

The surgery was scheduled to take place 7 hours later. Watson pulled some strings to book the next available OR, and Dr Greyson came in to perform the surgery on his day off as a personal favor to Watson. Sherlock answered the necessary questions and signed the necessary papers. He talked to his surgeon that informed him of the full extent of the risks and post-op proceedings.  
“Now, we don’t technically need to put you under, but in my experience there is virtually no existing local anesthetic that can fully numb the tail, so full anesthesia is our best option to avoid immobilization difficulties.” Dr Greyson explained. “And while I work on your tail, one of our plastics specialists will take care of your ear.”  
Sherlock nodded. He’d almost forgotten about the tear in his ear, too distracted by the pain in his crushed vertebrae.  
He refused when Watson offered to call the police and have them take their statements, collect physical evidence and make an effort to find the thugs. Sherlock said that he just wanted to put this whole thing behind him. In reality, he knew that his attackers most likely had probably already been taken care of.  
Watson assisted during the surgery. There really was no need for him to be there, but he felt a responsibility for Holmes. Like they say, if you save someone, you’re responsible for them. He didn’t, strictly speaking, save Sherlock’s life. But then again, even if those thugs had no intention to kill him, the combination of alcohol and natural stupidity could easily lead to them having no idea when to stop. 

After the surgery was over, Watson was waiting for Sherlock to wake up, when a strange smug-looking gentleman approached him.  
“What’s the prognosis, doctor?” He asked, crossing his legs and leaning into his umbrella.  
“Who the hell are you?” Watson was slightly startled by his voice. “How did you get in here?”  
“I assure you, doctor, I am no threat to your patient.”  
Watson didn’t even realize it himself, but he must have been giving off heavy vibes that made his protectiveness apparent.  
“That’s debatable.” Sherlock said weakly, waking from his narcosis.  
The man faked a smile, then pointed towards the bed next to the one Sherlock was occupying.  
“I strongly suggest that you move my brother to a single room. His neighbor might be an unnecessary disturbance.” He looked over the bed with a hint of disgust. “Clearly a dog person.”  
Watson wasn’t entirely sure if he was joking or not.  
“Brother?” He looked over the man and his regular human features. “You’re his brother?”  
“Most of him anyway.” Sherlock intercepted the question directed at his sibling.  
“Well…I see you’re doing just fine. I will check on you when you get home, Sherlock.” The man headed out the door. “Nice meeting you, Dr Watson.”  
“Well, he’s…dramatic.” Watson followed the man out with his eyes.  
“He’s right about one thing though.” Sherlock replied drearily.  
“What’s that?”  
“My neighbor.” He motioned towards the empty bed next to him. “There’s dog hair all over the sheets. But she’s clearly been here a long time, judging by the pictures and items of domestic comfort on her bedside table, so the hair couldn’t have been transferred from the time of her arrival. I’m afraid her daughter,” he pointed at the picture decorating the table near the bed, “is bringing her Yorkie to visit. Probably in a bag.”  
Watson looked at the empty bed with an expression of mild shock, both from Sherlock’s deductions and the fact that the hospital staff somehow managed to not notice that someone was bringing a dog into the hospital for God knows how long. It wasn’t that there was any kind of war between dogs and Felidiens. In fact, many Felidiens quite loved dogs and kept them as pets. But having one in a hospital still wasn’t a very good idea.  
“That’s…” Watson faltered for a moment, unsure how to react. “I’ll arrange to have you moved elsewhere.”  
Sherlock nodded. He was waking up now, but looked rather miserable. Watson offered him water, and Sherlock accepted.  
“You never did answer Mycroft’s question, doctor.” Sherlock waited for a moment before clarifying. “What _is_ the prognosis?”  
“Oh! Right, yes. The surgery went well.” Watson smiled. “We won’t know anything for sure until the cast is off, but the prognosis is good.”  
“Could I borrow your phone?” Holmes was now fully awake and aware that the hospital will most likely want to hold him for at least 24 hours for observation, which would mean 24 hours of absolute boredom. He needed to text Lestrade. Perhaps the DI could swing by and drop off some cold case files for Sherlock to entertain himself with.  
“Yeah, sure.” He fished his phone out of his inside pocket and went back to studying Sherlock’s chart. “Do you have anyone to take care of you once we release you? It’d be good to have someone check on you, just in case.”  
“I’m sure my landlady could do me that service.” He hit send and passed the phone back to Watson. “Why won’t you ask you sister for financial help instead of resorting to living with a man you clearly despise? Is it because of her alcoholism or do you generally not get along?”  
“What…how?” Watson stared at the phone in his hand, realizing Holmes had somehow deduced that information from the device.  
“Your phone...” Sherlock went on to unveil the secrets held by the little piece of equipment. Its price, the romantic engraving, the damaged charger socket indicating shaky hands of an alcoholic.  
Watson merely listened in fascination.  
“That’s amazing.” He stared at Sherlock, who was clearly still a little surprised by the praise of his talents that generally tended to only creep people out. “Wait…how did you know Harry’s a she? Wouldn’t it be a more likely assumption to think that’s a man?”  
“The wallpaper on your phone…” Sherlock pointed at the mobile again. Watson touched the screen and the light went on, revealing an image of Harry and Clara. “You two have a strong familial resemblance.”  
“Yeah, I can’t figure out how to change this wallpaper thing…” He fiddled with the buttons, but quickly gave up, then looked up at Holmes who was suppressing a smile. Their eyes met for a moment, then they both burst out laughing.  
“Doctor…I think I might have a solution to your living conditions problem. Or an option to consider, at the very least.”  
“I’m listening.”  
“I currently reside alone because my landlady is both a kind soul and indebted to me, so she is giving me a rather good deal. However, my finances are stretched rather thinly, among other things, making me unable to afford taxi rides. And as you have witnessed, more public means of transportation are not only unpleasant, but rather dangerous for me. In short, I need a flatmate. Admittedly, I’m not the easiest person to live with, but considering your current situation, I imagine I might actually be the better option. Your special talents certainly don’t scare or bother me.”  
Watson was nodding in consideration, hope sprouting in his chest. He really was quite sick of his current co-habitant. He was a bigot in many more ways than one. There was a lot Watson could put up with from a friend, colleague of flatmate, if he knew the person was ultimately good. But that was the one thing his current flatmate was not.  
“If all goes well, we’ll be releasing you tomorrow. What do you say we share a taxi back to your place, so I can check it out and make my decision then?”  
“Perfect.”  
“Alright, let me arrange for you to be moved to a single room if we have one before your dog lady neighbor returns.”  
“Thank you, Dr Watson.”  
“I believe under the circumstances, you could just call me John.”  
Sherlock gave him a nod and settled more comfortably in his bed.  
“John.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Really? Not a single one in the whole bloody hospital?” Watson was yelling at a nurse just outside Sherlock’s hospital room. “Isn’t that illegal or something?” He watched a slightly panicked expression on the nurse’s face. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. Here…” He pulled a £5 banknote out of his pocket and gave it to the nurse. “Could you go to the shop across the street, please? They have basic medical supplies, maybe they’ve got one. Thank you.”  
He took a deep breath and entered Sherlock’s room. Holmes glanced at him with a question. He was dressed and ready to go home. His tail was lying limply on the bed, trapped in the heavy cast. Watson let out a sigh.  
“We don’t have tail slings, apparently.”  
“Ah.”  
“Unbelievable.” Watson was rather irritated by the whole thing. Unforeseen disastrous circumstances aside, they’d never run out of arm slings or crutches or even wheelchairs. But somehow whoever was responsible for stocking their supplies just didn’t think tail slings were all that important.  
“I suppose they’re not in very high demand.”  
“Neither are 2mm tracheal intubation fiberscopes. And yet, we have those.”  
Sherlock watched Watson’s outrage in mild fascination. Why was he so infuriated by this? Of course, Sherlock’s had to deal with such inconveniences his whole life. Seats that did not accommodate for a tail, school uniforms that involved a hat that simply could not fit over his feline ears, clothes…basically, all clothes. Even if you surround yourself with the most comfortable furniture and custom-made clothing, the rest of the word will still try to shove you into a bucket seat. Sherlock was used to that, and the lack of a tail sling did not surprise him much. It was almost expected. So, John’s reaction amazed him. He wondered if the doctor cared this much about the well-being of all his patients.  
The nurse soon returned with the newly purchased supplies and change.  
“Thank you, Rachel. I’m really sorry I yelled at you earlier.” Watson apologized again.  
“It’s alright, doctor.” The nurse smiled briefly and left the room.  
John helped Sherlock get into the sling. It looked almost like a body harness, with a compartment that allowed to wrap the tail around the torso and let it rest just under the chest.  
“Alright?” John asked when everything was in place.  
Sherlock nodded. Though ‘alright’ was hardly the right word. He was uncomfortable and in a lot of pain, but not much could be done about that. He put on the rest of his clothes and they headed out.  
When they arrived at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock’s place of residence, they were met by Mrs Hudson, the landlady. She was all worry and compassion and apologies for not visiting at the hospital and questions about whether Sherlock needed anything. He simply smiled and introduced John.  
“This is Dr John Watson, he is considering taking the room upstairs.”  
“Oh, that’s lovely, dear. So very nice to meet you, doctor. I do hope you like the room.”  
She was intending to say something else, probably give him a tour, but as they entered Sherlock’s living room, they were met with an unmistakable condescending smile of Mycroft Holmes, and Mrs Hudson decided not to be a part of this particular conversation, retreating to her own flat instead.  
Sherlock merely rolled his eyes. His brother casually breaking into his home was really nothing new.  
“Nice to see you up and walking, dear brother.” He smiled. “And the good doctor…have you decided to move in yet?”  
“How did he…?” John looked to Sherlock for an explanation, but only got another eye roll in response.  
“You’ll be pleased to know your attackers have been apprehended. Nothing too tragic, of course. They’ll simply be…taught a lesson.”  
Sherlock’s expression was neutral. John’s, however, was bordering on shock as his brain made the connection.  
“Wait, how…?” He looked at Sherlock almost desperately now.  
“There are certain advantages to governmental access.” Mycroft explained.  
“Oh, you work for the British government?”  
“He _is_ the British Government.” Sherlock clarified.  
Mycroft sneered.  
“Do, please, call Mummy, Sherlock. Or better yet, visit when you can. She is worried about you.” He rose from his seat and headed out the door. On his way out he turned to John. “I do hope you decide to move in, Dr Watson. It would be good for my brother to have a living companion. Someone to keep the fire going, so to speak.”  
John stared at him, eyes wide in disbelief, as Mycroft walked down the stairs and disappeared into the street.  
“Did he just…?” It was becoming apparent that Mycroft’s presence made John unable to finish his sentences.  
“Well, like you said,” Sherlock carefully lowered himself onto the couch, “he is dramatic.”  
Mycroft’s care for Sherlock often seemed misplaced, intrusive and kind of patronizing. But it was genuine care nonetheless. He’d seen bits of the fight on CCTV footage, and apprehension of the attackers was for the sake of revenge rather than justice. He’d also seen Dr Watson’s involvement, as well as his protectiveness of Sherlock at the hospital and realized it wasn’t just doctor/patient privilege. What he also knew, better than most, was how dangerous life could be in general, and for the ‘freaks’ of the world especially. On top of that, he knew that his brother could at times be his own worst enemy. Having someone like Watson around could be a destructive catalyst, or a unparalleled stabilizing agent. 

Now that Mycroft was gone and John was more or less done being shocked, he finally took a look around the flat. It really was quite nice. Bigger than his current residence and better located. After a brief trip upstairs he was pretty much certain in his decision.  
“This is really lovely. Apart from the mess.”  
“Ah, yes.” Sherlock almost looked apologetic. “I could clean up, I suppose.” He attempted to rise off the couch, but his battered body wasn’t very cooperative.  
“Well, not right now.” Watson approached and gently pushed Sherlock back onto the couch. “You need to rest. And you need to eat. Is there food in this house?”  
Sherlock smiled at how John seemed to slide right into domestic mode, and he wasn’t even technically living there yet.  
“You’re moving in then?”  
John took another second to consider, but only for show.  
“Yes, yeah, I think I am.”  
“Good.” Sherlock nodded contently and then promptly fell asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

John moved in as soon as he could. He didn’t even care that there were still a few days paid for on his rent. It’s not that he was all that desperate to move out. Had a better option not come along, he’d probably live in his previous flat for a long time, however much he hated his flatmate. But considering that Sherlock was still in rather bad shape, John’s caregiver instincts took over and he decided that 221B was where he was really needed.  
He met unexpected resistance on that front, however. For some reason, Sherlock barely ate, only took as much care of himself as was needed to not be in excruciating pain, and spent most of his time on his laptop or phone.  
“So, what is it that you do exactly?”  
“I’m a consultant for the police.”  
“And what does that entail?”  
“I solve cases that they cannot. Which is most of them.”  
“Over the phone?”  
“Well, not usually. It’s preferable to actually be at the crime scene, of course. Examine the body and evidence in person. But I believe my doctor would be highly displeased if I did that right now.”  
John lowered his head and smiled. At least Sherlock did take it easy and limited his movements in the first few days after the surgery. Of course, John had no way of knowing whether that behavior was the norm for Sherlock or not as he had nothing to compare it to. But considering his struggle against food, medication and even sleep, John was getting the feeling that any action the sole purpose of which was taking care of himself was not Sherlock’s first priority. Or even second. Or third, for that matter.  
So, he wasn’t surprised all that much when less than a week after Sherlock’s release from the hospital, he was dressed and ready to go.  
“What do you think you’re doing?” Watson asked, watching Sherlock tug his coat on with a poorly masked grunt of discomfort.  
“Lestrade texted. Murder. They need me.”  
“Well, do they know the condition you’re in?”  
“I’m fine.”  
“You’re really not.” John blocked Sherlock’s way. “You’re not going anywhere.”  
“What are you going to do, tackle me?”  
Watson let out an exasperated sigh.  
“This is a terrible idea, Sherlock. You need rest and warmth. You’re not strong enough for this yet. What if something happens?”  
“Like what?”  
“I don’t know! Something…” John wasn’t even sure himself what he meant by that. Did he worry about Sherlock splitting a stitch? Re-fracturing his ribs? Getting attacked again? He'd survived somehow before meeting John, so this overprotectiveness was bordering on silly, even John realized that.  
“Come with me then.” Sherlock snapped John out of his wandering thoughts.  
“What?”  
“It is your day off, is it not? I prefer working with an assistant and most people at the Yard don’t particularly like working with me. You could provide medical insight and feel better from supervising me.” He watched John’s face carefully. The doctor was clearly excited about the idea, but hesitated for some reason. “I’m going, John. Your only choices are to go with me or let me go on my own.”  
That clearly tipped the scale.  
“Fine, give me a minute to get dressed.” 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, this is Dr John Watson, my colleague.”  
Lestrade and Watson shook hands and they all moved on to examine the crime scene.  
“What the hell happened to you?” Sergeant Sally Donovan inquired, more as a mockery than an actual expression of concern. Sherlock ignored her.  
“We found him like this.” Lestrade pointed at a body of a man, lying on his back with his arms stretched out as if embracing someone. “We’re estimating time of death to be around 12 hours ago.”  
“Is that so?” Sherlock said while moving closer to the body, though it was a dismissal rather than a question. He tried kneeling beside the body, but found it difficult due to the various damage his own body was still dealing with. Watson reacted quickly and helped Sherlock to get into the desired position. “John, tell me what you see.”  
“Well…” John examined the dead man, but assessing corpses was hardly his area of expertise. “I’m assuming the body was moved. Even if he died in this position, it would take the body some time to go into rigor, so unless he was hugging someone for hours after he died, he couldn’t have ended up like that.”  
Sherlock nodded approvingly.  
“What else?”  
“I don’t see any visible wounds, so I’m not certain about the cause of death.”  
Sherlock gave him a few more moments, but finally gave up and decided to give him a hint.  
“Look closer.” He guided John’s gaze at the corpse’s hands.  
John took a closer look and then a realization lit up his face.  
“Frostbite. Second degree. It’s not cold enough for that to happen from exposure to the elements. Are you suggesting he was held in some sort of refrigerator?”  
“He was indeed. He didn’t die from the cold though. He was injected with something, as I’m sure toxicology will confirm, and was left to die in a freezer. Can you not feel the stench of meat coming off him? He was most likely holding onto an animal carcass, hence the posture.” He struggled to get up, leaning into Watson’s arm. “I’m afraid that also renders your time of death estimations irrelevant. The temperature of his liver and longevity of rigor mortis could be altered by freezing.” He looked at Lestrade with an expression of annoyance and exasperation. “Are you telling me you really couldn’t have figured this out on your own?”  
“Well, as fascinating as all this is, it still doesn’t give us much information on where exactly he died or who killed him. We don’t even know who he is yet.” Lestrade pointed out.  
“Judging by his expensive clothing and accessories, he’s likely wealthy. Probably won’t be hard to identify. His watch is still in place, so obviously not a robbery gone wrong. Besides, poison suggests premeditation. And with that level of frostbite, he was either held in the freezer before he was murdered or the poison was slow-acting. He was made to suffer. Likely a crime of passion or revenge. Look for wronged employees or hurt family members. The easiest starting point in identification could be owners of shipping companies, food stores and restaurants. It’s possible the use of a freezer was just creative thinking on the killer’s part, but it could also be a choice of convenience as the freezer was readily available.” All the while Sherlock was tapping at his phone. “Ah, here we go. Lester Banning, CEO of Chestwood Incorporated, a company owning several restaurants in various parts of London. I believe the headquarters would be a good starting point for your investigation, Detective Inspector.” Holmes turned the screen of his phone towards Lestrade who took out a pen and paper pad to write down the address.  
“Want to join us for the interview?”  
“Of course.”  
Watson pulled Sherlock aside carefully.  
“Are you serious? You want to go interview potential murderers? You’re barely moving.”  
“I’m fine.”  
“Stop saying that!” John exclaimed in an angry whisper.  
“Are you coming?”  
John let out an audible sigh with hints of a grunt.  
“Doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice. Who else are you going to use as a living walking stick when you can’t lift yourself out of a chair?”


	6. Chapter 6

The interviews at the company headquarters bore no fruit of use. The police, of course, suspected everyone. But Sherlock quickly dismissed pretty much everyone present as a potential suspect and suggested to move on to interviewing the family.  
“Before we interview the family, we have to actually tell them that their loved one is dead.” Lestrade pointed out.  
“Yes, well, if they killed him, then perhaps he wasn’t all that loved.” Sherlock countered.  
Lestrade sighed but let it go.  
They interviewed the wife in her home. She looked genuinely upset, though probably not entirely surprised. It was as if she’d expected something like this to happen. She said she hadn’t seen her husband in a few days, but that wasn’t unusual. He traveled a lot for work, and sometimes simply forgot to tell her exactly where he was or when he’d be back. She had no solid alibi, but then there was also no solid time of death.  
However, after searching the restaurant she managed, police found fibers from the victim’s clothing on one of the animal carcasses, along with traces of her own blood and hair. Mrs Banning protested. She said the carcass wasn’t even supposed to be there, they bought meat in chops, not entire bodies. She said she loved her husband, she cried. But his death led to her inheriting large sums of money and real estate. Her guilt was apparent. To everyone but Sherlock.  
“We’re missing something.” He said, mostly to himself, as he stared at Mrs Banning in the interrogation room.  
“You don’t think she did it?” Watson asked.  
“I’m certain she didn’t. But…” His expression changed in a realization. He tapped at his phone for a few moments, then wrote something down on a piece of paper and entered the interrogation room unceremoniously.  
“Mrs Banning, does this address mean anything to you?”  
“Holmes, what are you doing here?” Lestrade said more in annoyance than anger.  
Mrs Banning hesitated for a moment.  
“We used to live in that house before business really picked up, a long time ago. Why?”  
Sherlock smiled.  
“Is your husband the biological father if your son?”  
“I…what?” She started panicking a little.  
“Was your husband abusive towards your son?”  
She lowered her head and started crying, but quickly composed herself.  
“Yes. Yes, he was. That’s why I killed him. It was me. I confess.”  
“Oh, please, Mrs Banning, we both know that’s not true.”  
“Sherlock!” Lestrade ushered him out of the room. “Okay, that’s enough, what the hell are you doing?”  
“She didn’t kill her husband, she’s covering for her son. She’s just realized he’s the real killer.”  
“Even if that were true, all you’ve achieved is that now on top of an airtight case, we have a confession. And her son is at University. He couldn’t have done it.”  
“Yes, because there are no cars or planes, and there is just no way he could have come back to murder his abusive pseudo-parent and return to University in time to secure himself an alibi.”  
“We’ll look into it. But right now I have to go clean up your mess. As usual.”  
Lestrade returned to the interrogation room. Sherlock fumed for a few moments until finally deciding to take matters into his own hands.  
“Where are we going?” Watson simply asked, not even trying to stop the self-destructive madman anymore.  
“The freezer.” Sherlock explained. “The son decided to frame his mother for the murder. He needed a freezer to stand in for the one at her restaurant, but he couldn’t risk using one where he could get caught. He probably rented a mobile one. We can track that.”  
After some research and a few phone calls in which Sherlock demonstrated disturbing talents at lying, he found out that a mobile freezer was rented and driven out of a facility not far from the son’s University. It was yet to be returned.  
Of course, that meant a rented car, a long drive, and a very angry Watson.  
“You really should be in bed right now.”  
“Am I past my curfew?”  
“I’m serious, Sherlock, this could set back your recovery. It’s not healthy.”  
“Sitting at home, being bored is not healthy.”  
Watson opened his mouth to object, but abandoned the battle as unwinnable. Besides, even in the short time he’d lived with Holmes, he saw that boredom could indeed do horrible things to the man. So, while Sherlock was certainly wrong in risking his health, he also kind of had a point.  
“How did you know it was the son anyway?”  
“The photos in their house. Mr and Mrs Banning have separate bedrooms. She has pictures of their son in her bedroom, he does not. There are pictures of the spouses on the mantelpiece in the lounge, of their friends and other relatives, but not of their son, like he’s not wanted there. At least not by Mr Banning. The son has a hitchhiker’s thumb, while neither of the Banning’s do. I imagine at some point Mr Banning got suspicious, ran a DNA test and found out that the son was not his. He didn’t take it very well.” Sherlock glanced at John for a moment, just to enjoy his astonished look, then went on. “Remember I said we were missing something? The house where the body was found. Why was the body brought there? It could be random, but with this amount of planning, there was probably a point. I asked Mrs Banning about the address simply to see her reaction. Lestrade never told her that’s where her husband was found, he only told her it was in an old abandoned building. Her reaction was that of innocent confusion, not one of a killer that dragged her husband’s corpse into their old living quarters. I imagine most of the abuse happened when they lived in that house, so the son decided to take his abuser back to the scene of his crime.”  
John took a few moments to process.  
“Why would he frame his mother though?”  
“She was aware that Mr Banning was abusing her son. And she did nothing to stop him.”  
“But she’s defending him now. Trying to take the blame for the murder.”  
“Yes, I suspect she believes that by doing so she can compensate for her past fault. I’m afraid it is, as they say, too little too late.”

They located the freezer fairly quickly, a few blocks away from the University campus. As soon as they reached it, Sherlock proceeded to pick the lock.  
“Are we breaking and entering now?”  
“No choice.” Sherlock explained. “The freezer was rented with cash to a fake name. If we don’t find any actual evidence that this is where the murder was committed, the police won’t even have a reason to look at it.”  
“One would imagine they’d know by now just to take your word for it.”  
“One would.”  
The lock clicked open and Sherlock pulled the door ajar.  
“Help me up.” He instructed Watson.  
“You really shouldn’t--”  
“John…”  
“Fine.”  
“Stand guard.”  
“Obviously.”  
And that was the last thing John remembered before waking up inside the freezer with a throbbing pain in his head. The door was locked from the outside and they were moving. He pulled himself up into a sitting position next to Sherlock who somehow managed to look both annoyed and excited at the same time. He held up a small plastic bag that contained a syringe cap that he’d located in the freezer while Watson was unconscious.  
“Oh great, we have evidence.” John smiled forcedly. “Now if only we weren’t locked inside a freezer and being driven God knows where by a murderous maniac.”  
“And whose fault is that?”  
“Who brought us here in the first place?”  
“You were supposed to stand guard. The whole purpose of that task is to not let something like this happen.”  
John let out an annoyed sigh. It was sort of his fault. Well, no, really, it was Sherlock’s that they were even there at all, but he did fail the whole guarding thing.  
The truck stopped. They both looked at the door, expecting the killer to come in and finish them off, but instead a low noise filled the air and the temperature gradually started dropping. He intended to freeze them to death.  
“This is like a bad movie. Go in without backup, no one knows where we are, and the killer locked us in a freezer. Whoever wrote this story has no imagination.” John pulled out his phone.  
“No reception here, I’ve already tried.”  
“Maybe there is on mine.”  
“I’ve tried yours too.”  
“So, what, we’re just going to sit here and wait to die?”  
He looked at Sherlock in anticipation, expecting him to come up with some brilliant solution. That’s what he did, wasn’t it? But the truth was that there really wasn’t a solution. There was simply no way of getting out of that freezer. The inside handle had been broken off, and either way, they were locked in. Even if they managed to stay warm, they’d suffocate before anyone found them. It was a literal death trap.  
“I’m sorry, John.” It almost sounded like a goodbye. “This is my fault.”  
Watson allowed himself a few seconds of panic. Then he lifted himself off the floor, walked to the door and took a deep breath.  
“Get back.” He instructed. “I’ve only ever done this once before and it didn’t really end well that time, but there’s not much of a choice.”  
Sherlock understood immediately what was about to happen and moved to the opposite side of the freezer. He wasn’t sure whether this was a brilliant escape plan or just a quicker way to die, but their options were indeed quite limited. John took a few more breaths, raised his hands to where the lock was on the other side and directed a stream of fire at the metal. Gradually it began to melt. By the time he melted a hole through the door, the freezer felt more like an oven.  
When they got out, they found themselves in a field and it took them some time to get to a road and back to civilization.

The syringe cap that Sherlock found inside the freezer contained the son’s DNA on the outside and traces of the poison used to kill Banning on the inside. He pulled it off with his mouth and left his saliva on it. By the time the police arrived in the field, the freezer was gone. Which was a hindrance to the investigation, but a bit of a relief for John and Sherlock who now didn’t have to explain how exactly they got out.  
Mrs Banning eventually withdrew her confession and shed some light on the family life and horrors of the Bannings, the abuse, and her son’s growing emotional instability. Something finally triggered him not long before the murder, and she almost expected it to happen. She blamed herself more than she should have. Or maybe just enough.  
It took some effort to actually locate the killer after he’d realized that the police were onto him. But that was not John and Sherlock’s problem. They had other problems to attend to.


	7. Chapter 7

The morning after fun with freezers Sherlock woke up sick. John didn’t realize it until he came home from work that night to find Sherlock on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, shaking lightly. He was pale, paler than usual, almost a bluish shade. His ears were folded back and he was staring into darkness with his eyes slightly narrowed. Napkins were scattered everywhere.   
As soon as John saw what was happening, he brought his friend paracetamol and a glass of water. Sherlock was too miserable by then to even attempt resisting.   
“You need to eat something.” John stated, but only got a disgruntled whine in reply. “You’ve used up your body’s resources, you need nutrition.”  
He went into the kitchen in hope of finding something that could be warmed up and fed to Sherlock in a short time. All he could find was a couple of cans of beans and vegetable broth. It would have to do. He warmed up the broth, poured it into a bowl and presented it to his patient. It took some convincing, but at this point Sherlock didn’t even have the energy to argue. He sipped the broth lazily and loudly while Watson lit up the fireplace.   
Half an hour later, Sherlock was still shivering. His body just couldn’t cope. It was already dealing with a broken tail, cracked ribs and multiple cuts and bruises. It simply did not have any energy left to fight off a cold as well. He couldn’t get warm, and he couldn’t even fall asleep because of how uncomfortable he was. John almost felt sick himself just watching Sherlock’s misery.   
Finally, John couldn’t take it anymore, so he sat down on the couch next to Sherlock, jamming himself into the corner.  
“Come here.” He spread his arms out invitingly. Sherlock only looked back at him in confusion. “You need to get warm, come on.”  
Sherlock hesitated for almost a whole minute, but he was desperately freezing, so eventually he unfolded the blanket, moved closer to John and allowed himself to be embraced. John pulled the blanket over both of them and wrapped his arms around his flatmate. Moments later, Sherlock felt heat radiating from John’s skin. It was gentle, just enough to warm him up. After a while Sherlock finally stopped shivering, relaxed and eventually fell asleep, effectively pinning John down to the couch. John didn’t mind though. That distressing shade of paleness was now gone from Sherlock’s skin and his face was gaining color again. That was worth being trapped under Sherlock’s body for 7 hours straight. John didn’t dare move for fear of waking his friend, so he remained in place and eventually fell asleep himself.

John took the next 3 days off to take care of Sherlock. It might have seemed like measures a bit too drastic for a common cold, but in combination with everything else Sherlock’s body had to endure, he really needed to get better as soon as possible, and he couldn’t do that on his own. He seemingly did not know how. So, John fed him and medicated him, and kept him warm. And every night for the next week, Sherlock fell asleep on the couch in John’s arms. Every night he clung a little closer and held John and little tighter, and one night he even purred. Which absolutely blew John’s mind as he’d spent his entire life thinking that Felidiens purring was just a myth. It also made him quite irritated by how little he really was taught about Felidiens in med school.   
Truth be told, Sherlock’s cold was almost entirely gone by the fourth day and he didn’t really need help getting warm or falling asleep anymore. But they both pretended otherwise because neither wanted to give up their nightly cuddling sessions. However, on the 8th night, John came home from work to find Sherlock asleep in his own bed. An unexpected stab of disappointment and loss sliced through John’s heart. He knew it had to end at some point, but somehow he secretly hoped that it never would.


	8. Chapter 8

Their week of cuddles wasn’t entirely inconsequential though. The walls defining the boundaries of their personal space lost quite a bit of their corporealness. They sat closer on the couch, they brushed arms in the kitchen. Sometimes when Sherlock was irritated, he’d slump over John’s shoulder or sigh with frustration into his back. It confused John at first. He didn’t know what it all meant, what Sherlock meant by it. But after a while he realized that Sherlock didn’t really think the way most people did. He didn’t rush to label and define, he didn’t really care what their physical closeness meant. To him, they were people that weren’t touching, and then they were people that were. And if it worked and felt right, that was all that mattered. And eventually John stopped worrying about it as well. For a while anyway.

About a month after the surgery, Sherlock went back to actively working. Assisting police, taking on private cases. He justified it by reminding John that there were bills to be paid, but in reality it was mostly that there was only so much inactivity he could take before he started setting things on fire just to see what happens. To his credit, he did mostly take on cases that involved more brain work than leg work, and yet, John worried. Whenever possible, he followed Sherlock, so to speak, into battle. At first just to keep an eye on him, but eventually he had to admit to himself that he really enjoyed it, perhaps more than anything else he’d ever done. He even adjusted his schedule at the hospital to be able to spend more time on cases.  
What John couldn’t ignore though, no matter how hard he tried was how much pain Sherlock was still dealing with. And for some reason he resisted painkillers. During one of their investigations, they ended up in a physical fight, which they technically won, but during its course, Sherlock was shoved into a wall, his sling tore open and his tail hit the bricks with a hollow sound. The cast protected the fragile bones, but the pain was so debilitating that Sherlock almost passed out on the spot. John had to almost carry him home and once there he felt like shoving Vicodin down his friend’s throat.  
“I’m fine.”  
“If you say that one more time…”  
“I can handle it.”  
“Why? Why would you want to? You don’t have to suffer like this!”  
Sherlock fell silent for a while, his mind considering the options and calculating scenarios.  
“John, I…I have…history of drug use.”  
“Drug use?” John repeated in slight disbelief.  
“Addiction.”  
“Oh.” John sunk into the couch next to Sherlock. Well, that explained it. And it was even kind of sort of admirable now that he thought about it. Powering through the pain to avoid the possibility of getting addicted to medication. John still had a hard time believing it though. Sherlock, doing drugs. He didn’t seem like the type, but then again, there really isn’t a type for this sort of thing. It was difficult to believe he’d endanger that precious brain of his, but then again, it was probably that brain of his that pushed him to it in the first place. It made all too much sense now that John gave it some deeper thought. What Sherlock could see, it scared some and amazed others, but for him it was probably a nightmare at times. A constant noise of information, and there really was a little too much of it these days, even for non-geniuses. And yet without stimulation, it was probably even more torturous. That brain was a miraculous machine capable of just about everything but keeping its host happy. Not to mention the isolation and loneliness that came with it all. And that’s before you even begin to consider what he’d had to deal with because of his genetic difference. Yes, now that John thought about it, there was no person in the world more likely to crave the oblivion of intoxication more than Sherlock. “I’ll get you some Motrin or Tramadol.”  
“It won’t help.” Sherlock sat on the side of the couch, his tail lay lifeless next to him, held down by its plaster cage, like a limp pendulum.  
John let out an anxious sigh. Sherlock was right, of course. Tail pain was excruciating. Even the narcotic drugs could barely manage it. Anything non-addictive would make virtually no difference.  
John moved deeper into the couch, behind Sherlock and started massaging his shoulders. It was hardly any help for anything, but John was desperate to do something, to provide some kind of relief for his friend. He really hated the helplessness.  
“Your cast is coming off next week.” John reminded. Sherlock hummed in reply. He remembered that, of course. He forgot a lot of things. To eat, to sleep. Sometimes John wondered how he remembered to blink without someone reminding him to. But of course he remembered that next week he’d find out whether or not his tail would be functional. “It’ll be okay.”  
“You don’t know that.”  
“No, but I mean, in the long run, it’ll be okay. Whatever happens next week…” He lowered his head into Sherlock’s shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have mentioned this before: there will be a few chapters that'll deal with emotional/medical stuff, but there will be another case later. It's a 2-case fic.


	9. Chapter 9

The tail is certainly not the most important part of a person’s body. Even for a Felidien. Even for a cat. It serves for balance, but isn’t crucial. It communicates emotions, but a lot of people actually view that as a disadvantage. The fur plays a role in temperature regulation, but the rest of the body can easily compensate for that should the fur no longer be present. It’s pretty, but that’s all relative. So really, you can live without a tail. Which is why some doctors don’t feel like it deserves the same attention as actual important extremities that you use to walk and hold things. Some would go so far as to say that treating a tail is like trying to heal an appendix instead of cutting it out. But then, most of those people don’t actually have tails.   
If you asked Sherlock why he loves his tail, he wouldn’t be able to give you a satisfactory answer. Why do you love any part of yourself? Even if it’s not essential to your comfort, sometimes things are important just because they’re a part of you. A dimple, a freckle, a strand of hair. It’s all a part of what makes you you.  
Perhaps it was in part about how magnificent tails actually looked, and Sherlock undeniably had a thing for dramatics. John wasn’t fully aware of that yet as the whole time he’d known the man, Sherlock was bruised and battered, not moving quite as swiftly, not looking quite as majestic. But John saw an old picture of Sherlock once, where he was displayed in all of his glory. His great long coat, split in half in the back from the waist down to allow his tail to move freely. The tail was quite large, covered in long thick fur, a lighter shade than his dark brown hair. It was almost a dark orange. The picture caught it well-lit, glowing in the beam of a streetlight. It looked like a flowing sword of fire. John couldn’t wait to see it in person, to touch it if he was lucky. And it gave him a persistent ache in his chest whenever he thought of the possibility that Sherlock might lose it.   
They were sitting on a hospital bed now, side by side, waiting for Dr Greyson to come in and remove the cast. Sherlock had every intention of doing it himself, but John convinced him somehow to come to the hospital instead. It was John’s day off, but he came in with Sherlock anyway, just in case. There was no need for it really. But he just wanted to be there for his friend if it all went to hell.   
“Good morning, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson.” Dr Greyson entered the room with a smile.  
John got off the bed to allow the doctor to do his job and leaned into a wall.   
Taking the cast off was far more painful than one would imagine or hope. The trauma combined with regaining sensitivity, plus the fact that some of the hairs caught in the plaster before it set and were now being pulled out as the cast came off.   
When the tail was set free, it looked miserable. Some of the fur had grown back around the surgery scar, but it was much shorter than that on the rest of the tail. It looked undeniably damaged. They took an X-ray to confirm that everything healed up properly. But that was only half of the way to recovery.  
“Now’s the hard part.” Dr Greyson announced with a sympathetic smile. “You’re going to have to try to move it.”  
Sherlock tried. He really tried, but nothing happened. The tail was motionless on the bed beside him. Dr Greyson approached and his hand hovered above the tip of the tail.  
“Alright, this might be painful, but I’ll try to move it for you, alright?”  
Sherlock nodded. The doctor carefully slid his hand under the tail and gently twisted it to a 45° angle. Sherlock sucked in a loud breath, his hands grabbed desperately at the sheets on the bed and a tear rolled down his face before he even realized it. John’s entire body went stiff as a board at the sight.  
Dr Greyson carefully slid his hand from under the tail and smiled.  
“Believe it or not, this is actually good news. You have full sensitivity in your tail, which means your nerves haven’t shut down. It still doesn’t completely eliminate possibility of paralysis, but the prognosis is much better this way.” Greyson pulled out his pen and started writing a prescription. “You will need physical therapy, of course, and I’m writing you a prescription for morphine. You’ll need it.” He gave the piece of paper to Sherlock with a smile. “Dr Janes will be in charge of your physical therapy, and you can come see me whenever you want.”  
After Greyson left the room, John peeled himself off the wall and hugged Sherlock with a disturbing level of need. The hug was for his own sake more than Sherlock’s. There was so much tension in his body, he felt like he would snap. At the moment, Sherlock certainly didn’t mind the hug either.  
After finally letting go, he helped Sherlock get his tail into the sling, which was a far more painful ordeal now that it was no longer protected by a plaster shield. They stood in silence for a bit before leaving. Sherlock stared at the prescription in his hands for a few moments, then tore it in half and dropped it in the trash bin.  
“Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	10. Chapter 10

Physical therapy for a tail didn’t involve a lot of equipment. It was mostly performed manually, and with the right amount of knowledge and medical supervision, it could be performed at home. So, Watson got a crash course in it from Dr Janes and took it upon himself to be in charge of Sherlock’s recovery. John knew it was unlikely that his friend would actually go to the hospital for sessions with Dr Janes. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to recover. Of course he did. There was just something about the actual process of going to the hospital and having a stranger painfully twist his tail around for an hour 3 times a week that didn’t particularly appeal to Sherlock. It was mostly the emotional aspect of it. The vulnerability, the frustration. He couldn’t trust anyone to see him like that. Well, anyone but John, of course.   
John tried to prepare himself for the worst outcome. But he wasn’t quite ready for the road there. Three weeks in there was still no progress, and Sherlock was becoming really frustrated. And that was a horrible thing to witness.   
“What’s even the point of this? Might as well just have Dr Greyson cut it off.”  
“Don’t say that.”   
“Why not? This feels like scheduled torture and nothing is happening.”  
Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the couch, his whole body tense with pain and anger. John was sitting on a chair in front of him, still holding his tail in his hand, but not doing any exercises. First, he needed to calm Sherlock down somehow.  
“This isn’t going to get fixed overnight, you know.”  
“Obviously. But one would expect at least some kind of progress by now, wouldn’t you think?”  
“It’s different for everyone.” John tried to remain composed. “Maybe you should go to Dr Janes, maybe I’m doing something wrong.”  
“You’re not doing anything wrong, John!” Sherlock’s voice became gradually louder. “I’ve studied the practice back and forth. But there’s only so much you can do. You can’t invoke a miracle. Even you can’t fix the unfixable!”  
“Ah!” Watson’s mouth fell open in shock and he inhaled so loudly it actually made a noise. In his anger, Sherlock was oblivious for a while, but finally noticed John’s stunned expression.  
“What?”  
“You…what did you do? Can you do that again?”  
“Do what?” Sherlock only stared at his friend in confusion.   
“It moved.” John looked down at the tip of the tail in his hand.   
For a moment Sherlock actually considered if John was lying. To lift his spirits, perhaps. But that would be cruel and a failing tactic in the long run. He wouldn’t do that. Sherlock’s expression changed to something undefinable. Uncertainty, hope, fear. He looked down at his damaged extremity and tried to will it to move.  
“I…I can’t.” He exhaled in frustration.  
“Try again. It moved, I felt it, I swear!”   
Another 3 minutes of what looked from the outside like a pained attempt at telekinesis, and still nothing happened.  
“I can’t, it’s not working!” Sherlock was becoming angry again. His fingernails were digging into the couch so hard he started tearing the material. His face was contorted with fury. It wasn’t working, it wasn’t working, it wasn’t…  
“Oh God! Did you see that?” John almost leapt out of his chair as the tail in his hand moved a good 3 inches to the side, all by itself. “More importantly, did you feel that?”   
Sherlock nodded. He did indeed feel it. It was mostly pain, but that was normal at this point. Neural pathways were reconnecting, nerves waking up.   
Not all tail movements were entirely voluntary. With all the intelligence and control that Felidae sapiens possessed, part of their tail and ear movements were uncontrollable representations of emotion. Much like sometimes any person can’t stop themselves from crying or laughing, sometimes Felidiens can’t stop their tails from flaring up in fear or their ears from folding backwards in rage. So, before Sherlock could will his tail to move voluntarily, his anger did the trick for him.   
“Alright, alright, let’s take this easy.” John tried to calm them both down. It was all wonderful and exciting, but safety first. “Okay, try moving from the base.”  
It was one of the exercises: Sherlock would arch his tail starting from the base, and usually the movement would just stop at the point of the break. But now, it didn’t. The wave of movement continued all the way to the tip. Much slower and with a narrower amplitude, but the damaged part definitely moved. It was so painful that Sherlock finally tore a bunch of holes in the couch, but that was okay. It was progress. His face was red with effort, but he was laughing, and so was John.   
It almost looked like John was the one that was more excited. The adrenalin high made him practically beam with joy. The sight made Sherlock giggle internally. And then John did something that he would regret for a very long time. He kissed Sherlock. Square on the lips. Passionately and unapologetically.  
Sherlock did not pull away, but he didn’t reciprocate either. He just sort of…endured. And after it was over, he lowered his eyes, then put his hand on John’s shoulder, lifted himself off the couch and walked out of the room, leaving John alone, confused, and in more pain than even a broken limb could cause.


	11. Chapter 11

People often thought Sherlock to be an emotionless machine. They called him a psychopath. That wasn’t true, of course. He classified himself as a sociopath at one point, but that wasn’t true either. No, he experienced every type, shape and color of emotion, just not the way most people did. He couldn’t always tell what the people around him felt, and even when he could, he didn’t consider those feelings quite as important as everyone else did. He couldn’t always tell how his words or actions affected others, and sometimes he simply did not find it to be relevant. In part it was neurological, in part it was just who he was. But he certainly did not lack empathy. He simply felt that in most cases expressing it was not entirely necessary. It was far more important to find the missing child than to cradle her parent’s feelings. It mattered more to catch the killer than to comfort the victim’s family. He felt everything everyone else felt, he simply moved it aside and showed his sympathy by fixing the problem to the best of his ability rather than telling people how sorry he was that the problem existed. He relied on logic and kept his mind clear of the fog of unnecessary sentiment.  
And none of that was any help to him now as he lay on his bed in the dark, fighting through the pain as he slowly swished his tail around, thinking about how John went and damn well kissed him. It wasn’t that he minded and it wasn’t that he didn’t want it. It’s just that what they had was good. Was there really a need to fix what wasn’t broken? Of course, sometimes an upgrade is a delightful improvement, but quite often when you try to add modifications in order to make a good thing better, you end up ruining it entirely. And looking around at all those unsuccessful relationships that ended up in heartbreak and bitterness, Sherlock didn’t particularly feel like sacrificing the most meaningful friendship in his life for the sake of a potentially disastrous romance. They say you have to be able to take risks in order to succeed. But you also need to know when to be content with what you have instead of reaching for the improbable. 

The kiss was not spoken of for a very long time. They both just chose to not mention it. And they pretty much went back to the way they were. Except that their physical closeness subsided. John was afraid to freak Sherlock out. Sherlock was afraid that his willingness to touch would be perceived as reciprocation of John’s romantic pursuit. It resulted in some awkward moments and an unfortunate loss of an aspect of their relationship that they both clearly enjoyed. But they recovered, mostly. John felt terrible about what he did, believing to have almost ruined their friendship, thinking he’d done something Sherlock clearly did not want him to do. Meanwhile, Sherlock felt guilty for not returning John’s feelings, or for being too cowardly to return them, or…something. He wasn’t really sure what he felt. And for some damn reason neither would actually, you know, talk about it. 

Sherlock was in the kitchen, sitting by his microscope, tail lazily swaying behind him. He’d regained most of the functionality by now and the pain had subsided significantly. Though John still insisted they continue physical therapy, if only to keep for as long as he could the last scenario that allowed him physical closeness with Sherlock.  
John was returning from work now, picking up the mail, getting up the stairs.  
“There’s a package for you.” He set a rectangular box on the kitchen table.  
Sherlock checked the return address.  
“That’s for you, actually.”  
John looked confused for a second. The package was clearly addressed to Sherlock, so what he meant, in fact, was that he ordered something for John. So, he opened the package and studied the contents with an even stronger sense of confusion.  
“Can opener, corkscrew, scissors…I’m touched. You know we have most of this stuff, right?”  
“Right.”  
“Oh…” John finally realized the point of the gift. “They’re leftie versions.”  
The box also contained a vegetable peeler, a few notebooks and pens with a little twist at the end that made it easier to see the text when writing with the left hand, a craft knife, a ruler, some more exotic kitchen tools, like bread and tomato slicers. Even some spatulas. Most of it really wasn’t that necessary, but Sherlock really quite committed to the cause.  
“This is really sweet, Sherlock, but I can manage just fine with--”  
“Have you ever seen yourself open a can, John? It’s pathetic.”  
“Thanks.”  
Sherlock sighed at the sarcasm and finally abandoned his experiment in favor of facing his friend.  
“Every year thousands of left-handed people suffer in accidents involving right-handed equipment. Many of those accidents are fatal.”  
“Do any of them involve spatulas?”  
Sherlock gave John an exaggerated look of annoyance and turned back to his microscope.  
“The outside world will always do a wonderful job discriminating against you, John. The least you can do is make your home as comfortable as possible.”  
There was something about those words that made John feel an almost literal warmth inside. As a Felidien, Sherlock certainly understood the discomfort of being a physiological minority in a world that really wasn’t designed with you in mind. So, at home he surrounded himself with things that made that discomfort minimal. And now he was doing whatever he could to extend this domestic coziness to John.  
“Thank you.” John finally said, with no sarcasm this time.  
Sherlock hummed with a light nod in reply without disengaging from the microscope.  
This was as good a time as any to crash and burn. The weight of the unaddressed issue was pulling on John’s heart with an increasing force. He needed to discuss it, to explain himself. To make sure there were no damaging misunderstandings.  
He opened his mouth to speak just as Sherlock’s phone buzzed on the table beside him. A smile ran over his face as he read the message.  
“Lestrade finally realized the need for my involvement in pursuit of the serial killer.”  
“There’s a serial killer?”  
“Yes. They haven’t released that to the press. Actually, I’m not even sure if they know it themselves yet.” Sherlock got dressed and looked at John who was still standing in the kitchen. “Coming?”  
They hadn’t been on cases together much since the kiss. It wasn’t necessarily intentional, just conflict of scheduling. At least that’s what John kept telling himself.  
“I…yes, sure. If you want me to.”  
“Always.”


	12. Chapter 12

“Lana Rolson, 29, sales assistant, lived alone.” Lestrade summed up the victim’s life.  
“Are the clothes hers?” Sherlock asked, examining the body.  
“No, she was redressed after.”  
“Obviously. But did he take the clothes out of her own home or did he buy them? The dress is new but has been washed at least once.” Sherlock checked the label in the back of the dress. “Check the brand of clothes on the other victims.”  
“Right.” Lestrade made a gesture to Donovan who immediately left to follow up on that lead. “Wait, how did you know there were others?”  
“I’ve been following this case. Surprised it took you this long to call me.”  
“Wait, we’re not even sure it’s a serial killer yet.” Lestrade lowered his voice instinctively, as if the walls around him could have the proverbial ears. “They’re different genders, different jobs, different financial standings, other than that they were redressed and found within days from each other, we have no reason to believe this is the work of a serial killer.”  
“That’s not all they have in common, now is it Detective Inspector?”  
Lestrade took a deep breath and sighed.  
John finally gave up trying to figure out what was happening.  
“Could someone fill me in, perhaps?” He looked at Sherlock demandingly.  
Sherlock pulled up pictures of the previous victims on his phone and showed them to John.  
“How did you get those?” Lestrade exclaimed upon noticing that those were police images from crime scenes and were never released to the public.  
Sherlock only smiled enigmatically and kept his attention on John who was looking partly shocked and slightly disgusted.  
“They look…” He couldn’t find the right word.  
“Vintage?” Sherlock suggested.  
“It’s like they all came from the set of a film about the 50s.”  
“Indeed. And he dressed them accordingly.” Sherlock refocused on the latest victim. “It appears our killer has a very specific fetish.”  
Donovan returned with bad news.  
“The clothes all came from different companies, but they all look new.”  
“Perhaps our killer is more careful than to dress his toys in the same shop.” Sherlock thought out loud before noticing everyone staring at him judgmentally. He merely rolled his eyes and went on. “It’s unlikely that the clothes are their own, but we still need to check their homes in case the killer’d been there.”  
“We’ve already checked the first 3 victims’ homes--” Donovan attempted dismissing his suggestion.  
“But I haven’t.” Sherlock looked at Lestrade with a silent demand until the DI instructed an officer to escort Holmes and Watson to the previous victims’ houses.  
After thoroughly studying all of them, Sherlock concluded that the killer had not been there, insulted some of the victim’s generally uneventful lives, and finished the day by lying on the couch and cataloging the received data. John brought him tea and toast at one point, but they remained untouched.  
The next morning, another body was found.

“He barely even waited this time.” Lestrade expressed his concern while leaning over the newest victim.  
“Perhaps he’s realized that we’re onto him and wants to have all the fun he can before getting caught.”  
“Do you have anything? Because I wouldn’t classify our current state of investigation as ‘on to him’.”  
“Not yet. But if he takes less time to prepare, he’s more likely to make a mistake.” Sherlock studied the body. “Like this one.”  
He pointed at a smudge of blood on the victim’s scarf. There were no wounds on the body. Causes of death differed between victims. Poison, asphyxiation, snapped neck. But they all left the victim’s bodies looking unharmed as they lay in their new clothes. The blood on the scarf did not belong to the victim. It did not belong there at all. The killer simply did not notice leaving it there.  
Forensics removed the scarf and tested the blood for DNA but it returned no results from any of the criminal databases. Still, it was more than they had before.  
The latest victim was 17 and lived with his parents. Lestrade resisted allowing Sherlock to follow him to the young man’s home to talk to the parents, but Sherlock insisted. Besides, John promised to keep him in line when he wasn’t listening.  
“Do you know of anyone who would wish to harm your son?” Lestrade was going through the usual questions, but mostly out of habit and protocol. The killer wasn’t choosing his victims because of their personalities. The only way to move this investigation forward would be to find some sort of connection between the victims, to understand how the killer found them.  
Sherlock was walking slowly around the house, studying everything in sight. It made the parents uncomfortable, but Lestrade assured them that this was a necessary part of the investigation. John followed close behind, part out of interest, part in order to be able to keep the promise he gave to Lestrade earlier. Suddenly, Sherlock froze. Images flashed through his mind as he stared at the photographs on the mantle.  
When Sherlock noticed or figured out something important, he had that look on his face. Pure excitement and passion. John couldn’t help but think that one of the most fascinating things in the world was a cat that saw something interesting. It was like a light went on inside their heads. Eyes wide, ears on alert. You couldn’t help by follow their gaze, but more often than not you couldn’t see what got their attention. Only they could. It was like that with Sherlock too. He saw and understood things that no one else did, and it was mesmerizing. He often accused John of not paying enough attention when they came to crime scenes together, but that wasn’t entirely true. John paid attention alright, it’s just that he wasn’t watching the crime scene. He was watching Sherlock.  
Much to the confusion and slight bewilderment of everyone present, Sherlock picked up a picture frame from the mantle and removed the photo inside. He studied it carefully until finally turning to the parents and asking:  
“Where was this photo taken?”  
In his hands was a Christmas family photo, clearly taken at a professional studio.  
“I…I don’t remember.” The mother responded at last. “It was a long time ago. Why does it matter?”  
The picture was several years old. The victim was still a small boy in it and his younger sister was barely out of the crib. Lestrade excused himself and approached Sherlock for an explanation.  
“This better be good.”  
“Two of the other victims had family shots like this one in their homes.”  
“So?”  
“The cloth in the background has a distinctive pattern.” Sherlock directed Lestrade’s attention at the photo. The sheet of fabric behind the family indeed had a barely distinguishable design. “Ask the other victims’ friends and families if they had a picture like that taken at some point in life. And we need to search the other victims’ homes again.”  
Lestrade let out a deep sigh. This was a pathetic lead. Thousands of people had those pictures taken. And the one Sherlock was holding wasn’t even recent.  
“You want me to go to the victims’ families with this?”  
“Think about it. The killer picked the victims out based on their visual qualities because of his fascination with certain facial features. If he worked at a photography studio he could be selecting his victims while taking photos of them. He could have been collecting their photos, fantasizing about them for years before something prompted him to start killing and using their bodies to flesh out his dreams.”  
That was a rather disturbing thought. Even more disturbing was that the latest victim’s parents were in earshot while Sherlock was summing up his theory to Lestrade. The DI shot an annoyed look at Watson like it was his fault when one of the parents started crying and the other started asking question that the police were not yet willing to answer. Still, this theory was better than nothing, so Lestrade sent officers to the other victims’ homes and to interview the families again on the subject of those photos. But he gave up on containment. Once certain types of questions start being asked, it’s impossible to keep the media from crying ‘Serial Killer’ on every corner. Might as well call a press conference.


	13. Chapter 13

Two of the other victims’ families remembered having such photos taken. One was very recent and they even had a receipt for the photo. That made it very easy to track the photographer. When he was brought in for questioning, Sherlock looked deeply annoyed.   
“What?” Watson asked simply.  
“It’s not him.”  
“How do you know?”  
Sherlock became even more annoyed.   
“Are you joking?”  
John watched the suspect in the interrogation room. He was practically trembling, even though he didn’t yet know what his was being accused of.  
“Well, he’s terrified. But that doesn’t mean he’s not a murderer. Whoever committed these crimes is clearly mentally unstable at least to some degree.”  
“Look at him, John. His muscle mass is nearly zero, he has a limp and early stages of arthritis. The first victim was a kick boxer, the third had two black belts. Does this really look like a man who could snap the neck of a fitness instructor?”  
John sighed. The police were wasting their time. When they told the suspect what the charges were, he almost wept. Sherlock was waiting for Lestrade in the hallway, impatiently. When the suspect was led out of the interrogation room he went from fear to anger, yelling at no one in particular that he didn’t kill anyone. But he had no alibi and was still the only real suspect they had, so they weren’t letting him go just yet.   
When passing Sherlock in the hallway, he broke away from his guards, grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his coat and yelled.  
“I didn’t murder anyone! Why won’t you people believe me?”  
Sherlock didn’t move. He looked at the man’s hands on his coat, then back at his face with a stone cold expression. It made the suspect instinctively let go and pull away. He was then walked to his cell in silence.  
For a moment John looked at Sherlock and felt proud that he’d had this majestic formidable creature purr on his chest. And then the familiar sting of loss and disappointment shot through him once more as he remembered that it would probably never happen again. 

Every worker in the studio was interviewed. Most had alibis for at least some of the murders. The photographer was set free with apologies, and ultimately the lead was abandoned. And while Sherlock refused to allow the possibility of the photos being a coincidence, eventually even he had to admit that not much else could be done.  
And then another body was found. And that meant more data. 

“It’s him, isn’t it?” The victim’s wife asked, staring into a piece of tissue in her hands. “I kept telling Jenny to be careful. But she said I was being silly. That just because she supposedly had the same type of looks as the other victims, it didn’t mean she was in any real danger.” She wiped her eyes again. “Sometimes I really hate being right.”   
“Mrs Lance, do you think you could give us a list of places your wife visited most often?” Donovan requested.   
“Yes. And they said on the news you were investigating professional photographers? I went through Jenny’s old photos, but I didn’t find anything that was taken at a studio.”  
Donovan sighed angrily. That information was never supposed to be public. How did the media always get ahold of this stuff?  
“Thank you.” She said anyway. “Do you know any of these people?” She gave the wife pictures of the previous victims and she started looking through them.  
Sherlock stood behind Donovan and looked around silently. Sometimes a wrong deduction humbled him just a little. Or at least made him angry enough with himself that he became quiet and just a little discouraged.   
“No, I don’t think I know any of these--”  
“Mrs Lance…” Sherlock slowly approached an antique cabinet filled with china, pottery and old photos. “Did this belong to your wife?” He pointed at a framed image of a man.  
“Yes, that’s her grandfather.”  
“She had this photo restored.”  
“Yes, a few years ago.”  
“Where?”  
“I can’t recall the address, but it was a little shop in a photography studio.” Her eyes widened in realization. “Is it the same studio where those other people had their photos taken?”   
Sherlock smiled, perhaps a little too happily considering that he was talking to a woman whose wife was just murdered not 12 hours earlier.   
“Thank you.” He said to Mrs Lance and practically ran out of her house. John grabbed his arm as soon as they were outside.  
“Where do you think you’re going?”  
“I was right!” His eyes were bright with satisfaction. “Two of the other victims had restored photos in their homes. It wasn’t the photographer, it was the man restoring old photographs.” Which really should have been obvious, he thought to himself.   
“We’ve been to the studio, there was no restoration shop.”  
Sherlock went through his memory of the studio. There was a door with a window in it, the kind you’d use to communicate with customers, but it was locked. Perhaps the shop had closed down.   
“We need to talk to the owner.”  
“Now? I have a shift at the hospital. Call Lestrade.”  
“I don’t think he’ll be particularly pleased with this recycled lead.”  
“Well, you’re not going alone.”  
“I’ll just be talking to the owner.”  
“No… No.” John sighed as he thought that his medical career was really kind of going down the drain. “Last time you went to investigate a hunch, you ended up locked in a freezer. And you know what would have happened if I wasn’t there? So, no, you are not going alone. I don’t care how harmless it seems.” He stared at Sherlock and his come-with-me-or-let-me-go look, sighed once more and pulled out his phone to dial the hospital. “Fine, let’s go.”

“Yeah, we had a photo restoration section right here.” The owner pointed in the direction of the door with a window.  
“Why didn’t you mention that to the police?” John said as politely as he could, if only to prevent Sherlock from saying it far more explicitly and discouraging the owner from elaborating.  
“Well, I didn’t think it mattered much. The shop closed down months ago.”  
“Why?”  
“Just not enough customers.” The owner sighed. “Which is what’s happening to me now too after you and your damn investigation has scared everyone out of having their pictures taken. I sure hope this blows over by Christmas.”   
“Who was your restoration specialist?”  
“Why, are you guys going after him now too?”  
“We just want to ask him a few questions.” John assured. “If you could give us his name and address, we’ll be out of your hair.”  
“I don’t know guys, don’t you need a warrant for that?”  
Sherlock was about to threaten the owner by saying that they could get this information by going through his tax records, and checking them thoroughly just while they’re at it, but John was not in the mood for a confrontation, so he decided to catch the necessary flies with something sweet instead.   
“The sooner we catch the killer, the sooner people will stop being afraid of using your services again.”   
The owner sighed, hesitated for just a few seconds, but in the end complied and provided them with all the information they needed.   
“So, you really think it’s him?” John asked as they exited the owner’s office.  
“The likelihood of such a coincidence is statistically improbable. He has to at least have a connection to the victims. His choice of profession certainly makes him more likely to have a special fondness for the faces from the past.”  
“Alright, I’m calling Lestrade.”  
“You think he’ll take this seriously?”  
“I’ll convince him.”  
“Maybe we should--”  
“No, we’re not going to interview a potential serial killer. Let the police deal with it.”  
Sherlock huffed in annoyance but ultimately agreed. He’d had enough near-death experiences for one year.


	14. Chapter 14

John was rudely awaken by the insistent ringing of his phone. A few missed messages and now finally a call that clearly intended to reach him no matter what.  
“Come pick up your problem child.” It was Lestrade.  
“What?” John was still waking up.  
“Just come to my office.”  
And that was all the information he was given.  
When he arrived at Lestrade’s office, he found Sherlock there, staring out of the window, ears drawn back in irritation, tail swinging angrily from side to side.  
“It’s not the photo restorer.” Lestrade explained.  
“Yes, it is.” Sherlock countered.  
“Elaborate?” John requested.  
“DNA doesn’t match.” Lestrade sounded tired and stressed. “The blood on the scarf we found on the 5th victim. That’s our only solid piece of evidence and it doesn’t match the suspect. Everything else is circumstantial, we have to let him go.”  
“It’s him!” Sherlock turned around furiously. “Have you seen him? Have you seen his house? It’s like a shrine of the 1950s.”  
“Wait, how have you seen his house?” Lestrade asked in a tired voice.  
“I broke in when you took him in for questioning.”  
“Alone?!” John exclaimed before realizing that that was probably not the best reaction to the words ‘I broke in’, especially in the presence of a law enforcement officer.  
“He has a half-healed cut on his right thumb. I bet that’s where the blood came from.”  
“It doesn’t match.” Lestrade emphasized every word as it was by far not the first time that night that he’d had to say them.  
“Then run it again!”  
Lestrade only sighed in reply. Sherlock looked at John, his eyes almost begging to believe him. And for whatever reason, John did.  
“Wait, the DNA sample from the victim was blood, right?” John asked Lestrade, who nodded in reply. “And what did you take for comparison?”  
“Saliva. Standard procedure. He even agreed, said he wanted his name cleared.”  
“Take blood.”  
“What? What difference does it make?”  
“Do we have access to his medical records?”  
“No, we haven’t even charged him yet. Am I missing something here?” Lestrade was used to feeling confused when talking to Sherlock, but now apparently John was throwing him curveballs as well.  
“There are some circumstances under which a person could carry 2 separate sets of DNA. Like if he’s had a bone marrow transplant or is a chimera.”  
“A Chimera?” Lestrade sneered. “You’re telling me our suspect is a mythological creature?”  
“It’s a condition far more common than you’d expect. Happens when one of the twins absorbs the other in utero. The result is 1 person with 2 sets of DNA. It’s possible that our killer knows this about himself, which is why he agreed to the test so willingly. Ask him for blood, see how he reacts to that.”  
Lestrade was still not convinced, it was a far shot. But both Holmes and Watson seemed so certain, that he was bending under the pressure.  
“Alright, can’t hurt to ask, I suppose.” 

Can’t hurt to ask. Can’t hurt to ask a mentally unstable serial killer to provide the police with evidence that would effectively prove his guilt. Yes, that made perfect sense.  
John and Sherlock were drawn out of Lestrade’s office by a loud commotion outside. They followed the noise, and as soon as they saw what was happening, they were forced to freeze just like everyone else. The killer was holding a young man – one of the unarmed police office workers – pressing a gun against his temple, yelling that he was walking out of there or the man loses his brain on the spot.  
It was effective. Even assuming the hostage was able to break away, which didn’t look likely at the moment, none of the armed officers had their weapons on the ready. No one had expected this to happen. The time it would take them to pull out their guns would be enough for the killer to shoot his hostage. They could not surround him and considering his present condition, talking him out of it was hardly an option.  
John and Sherlock exchanged a look. In that look was a silent conversation.  
 _“We could…”_  
 _“I’ll do it.”_  
 _“Are you sure?”_  
 _“Absolutely.”_  
Sherlock took a moment to search his memory for the killer’s name.  
“Mr Razinski.” He spoke loudly and moved a few feet to the left, until the killer turned towards him and yelled at him to stop. “How far do you expect to get with your back pressed against the wall? You are in a building filled with armed police officers. What do you think your chances are?”  
“They’ll let me go as far as I need if they want this kid to live.”  
“And then what? We know you killed all those people. Your face will be all over the news, in every paper, on every website. Where do you expect to hide? You don’t have anyone who would take you in, and your finances leave a lot to be desired.”  
“You must be that consultant the papers talked about.” Razinski scoffed in disgust. “Never would have thought you’d be a cat.”  
“Problem?” Sherlock had to force himself not to smile, having found a button to push.  
“Damn straight there’s a problem. Can’t believe you freaks are allowed among normal people. There weren’t any of you back in the good old days.”  
“Yes, there were.”  
“Well, at least you were hiding in your holes like you’re supposed to. All of you. The cats, the mutants, the homos and trannies. Now you’re all out and proud, equal rights and all.” He was getting agitated, almost spitting the words out.  
At this point at least half of the people present were really itching to blow this guy’s head off. Even the hostage seemed to regain composure as his eyes widened in disbelief.  
“What do you actually know about the good old days, Mr Razinski? You weren’t even there. You’re barely 50. You romanticize a time of which you only know from films and books. You live in an illusion based on other people’s words and pictures.”  
“You don’t know anything about me!”  
“On the contrary. I know everything about you. I know your wife left you several years ago. You haven’t seen your daughter since. You’ve been unemployed for months and you’re about to lose your house. You have beginning stages of kidney failure. You do know about that, right?”  
“Shut up.”  
“You have a gym membership, but you use it very rarely. Why is that, I wonder? Too lazy or is exercising not retro enough for you?”  
“Shut up or I swear…”  
“The first victim. You still have her picture framed in your home, like she was your girlfriend; but she never was, was she? She rejected you. And then you killed her. And that’s when you realized that instead of trying to have a real connection with the people that bore your favorite faces, you could just kill them and dress them up like dolls. And that’s all you’re ever going to get. Because no one in their right mind would ever choose to be anywhere near you while they’re still alive.”  
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Razinski pulled the gun away from his hostage’s temple and directed it at Sherlock. That was John’s cue. He threw a fireball at the killer’s hand, which made him scream in shock and drop his weapon. His grip on the hostage’s body loosened and the young man broke free, ran off and hid behind a desk. Seeing rage building in the killer’s eyes, John threw another fireball at his torso, causing his clothes to catch fire and the man to yell in pain and lose his balance.  
It took everyone a few moments to regain cognitive ability. But seconds later the person nearest to the killer kicked the gun away from him and someone else picked up the fire extinguisher and put the flames out. The killer was then cuffed and taken away.  
After that the room was silent. Everyone just sort of stared at John and Sherlock. This could go a few different ways. They could break out in applause or kick them both out or pretend like they didn’t see anything. Before anyone could make up their minds, Sherlock approached John, who was still coming down from the high of the battle, and whispered:  
“Let’s go home.”

The ride back to the flat was…strange. They both kept silent for a while. Sherlock watched the city outside.  
“This will change everything.” He said at last.  
“I know.”  
“Are you okay with that?”  
“Well…” John shifted in his seat. “At least now we can both have insulting nicknames whispered behind our backs.”  
Sherlock smiled lightly without moving his eyes away from the window. A few minutes later he spoke again.  
“I would have figured it out. That he had 2 sets of DNA. I would have thought of it at some point.”  
“Of course you would.” John smiled to himself, but his smile fell away when he realized that it must have been hard for Sherlock to be outsmarted by someone so far away from genius. His reaction may have seemed childish, but this was Sherlock’s area, and if he felt like he’d failed, that was nothing to laugh about.  
“But it could have been too late. They’d let him go and he’d get away. You can take credit for this one in that blog of yours.” Before John could decide on what would be the right way to respond to this, Sherlock turned to face him and added: “Thank you for believing me.”  
John simply nodded and they spent the rest of the way home in silence.

John was lost in thought as they walked up the stairs to the flat. He wondered what life would be like now that everyone at the Yard knew about his powers. Not just everyone at the Yard, everyone period. They’d just caught a serial killer by dramatically defusing a hostage situation. Someone was bound to spill the beans to the press. This would be a national sensation within hours.  
They both took off their coats and shoes and sunk onto the couch to rest. John looked over at Sherlock and smiled instinctively, glad that whatever would happen next, he wouldn’t be alone. Whatever the hell that implied. And then before he had a chance to really understand what was happening, Sherlock’s lips were on his and John’s eyes went so wide he thought he’d pull a muscle.  
It could seem that the events of the day had swayed Sherlock in the direction of love and romance and all that follows, but that wasn’t the case. It played a role, but it was merely a small portion of a long internal process of weighting pros and cons and making a decision. He didn’t miraculously fall in love because John solved the case, or because he disarmed a serial killer while Scotland Yard’s best stood by and watched in awe. No, he’d fallen in love a long time before that. He simply chose not to act upon it as he believed the risks to outweigh the possible rewards. But gradually, he reconsidered that decision. After all, avoiding risk was never among Sherlock’s strong points.  
“Do you still want me?” He asked after breaking away from John’s lips.  
John didn’t hesitate for long. He kissed Sherlock back with the full force of 3 months’ worth of pent-up frustration.  
“Always.”


	15. Chapter 15

It was snowing. The city was standing still.  
Sherlock was sleeping on John’s chest, purring thunderously. John slowly ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, watching the flames in the fireplace and the snowflakes outside their window.  
Sherlock woke up and looked up at John.  
“You were purring again.” John said quietly.  
“I was?” Sherlock rubbed his eyes sleepily. “Wait, what do you mean ‘again’?”  
“You do that sometimes.”  
“I…was not aware. Must have been involuntary. That’s never happened before.”  
“Seriously?” John shifted to get a better view of Sherlock’s eyes. “You’ve never purred in your sleep before?”  
“Never purred period. At least not that I know of. Perhaps as a child, but I have no recollection of it.”  
“That’s kind of…sad.”  
“Not necessarily. Purring is not always a good thing. Sometimes it’s a self-soothing technique for severe pain. Some people purr right before they die.”  
John’s mouth dropped open in mild shock.  
“Why wasn’t I taught this in med school?”  
“How much were you even taught at all about Felidiens?”  
“Clearly not enough.” John went back to running his palm through Sherlock’s hair, rubbing his ears, touching the fading scar from the night they met. “Mycroft is a Felidien, isn’t he?” John asked after a few minutes of silence. Sherlock looked up at him in a silent challenge to explain his deduction. “It’s just that…he was here the other day, and I stood next to him while he was in the chair. And this is not something I would have noticed before, but obviously your constant attempts to make me observe are paying off. I just looked at his ear and realized that it leads nowhere. It’s perfectly shaped, but there’s no hearing passage. It’s a transplant. He had reconstructive surgery to remove his feline features, didn’t he?”  
Sherlock smiled in pride of John’s newly acquired deductive skills.  
“Yes, years ago.”  
“Why?”  
“For his career, of course. Not only would he face persecution that would significantly impede his ascend up the political ladder, but it would be quite difficult for him to hide his emotions, which is a necessary ability in his profession.”  
“And you’re okay with that?”  
“My views on what he does with his body are hardly relevant.”  
“Oh, come on, Sherlock, you have an opinion on everything.”  
Sherlock was silent for a few moments.  
“I don’t approve, but I understand it.”  
“Would you have done it? If there was no way for you to do what you do without mutilating yourself to blend in, would you have done it?”  
“I…” He’d thought about it, of course. Many times, and yet he didn’t know the answer. “I think I would have attempted to prove my worth without changing who I am.”  
“There’s a revolutionary living in you.” John chuckled.  
“Don’t tell my brother.” 

They continued to lie in silence, their flat a sort of cocoon of comfort. Just a few months back, Sherlock would have hated it, restlessly hoping for a murder or intricately planned robbery. Anything to occupy him. But now he lay content on John’s chest and it was enough. He wouldn’t be able to stay inactive for long, of course, but John was mentally crossing his fingers in hope that he could enjoy this at least for a few more hours. Sherlock’s tail was resting on John’s shoulder. The fur had grown back now and the surgery scar was almost unnoticeable unless you looked for it specifically. John hovered his fingers over the tip imperceptibly.  
It was getting rather cold now.  
“We need a blanket.” John stated. Sherlock hummed his agreement, but no one actually got up to get the blanket. John shifted a little and felt how cold Sherlock’s feet were. “Seriously, we need to get a blanket.”  
“I don’t need a blanket, I have a pyrokinetic boyfriend.” Sherlock mumbled, half asleep.  
John opened his mouth dramatically in a fake expression of annoyance, but couldn’t keep the smile off his face.  
“So, you just expect me to be your own personal heating pad whenever you want?”  
“Pretty much.”  
John had to giggle at the entitlement. But he couldn’t fake irritation about this very well. He adored it. In the past he’d had a few partners that were aware of his powers, and a couple of them were even okay with them. But they just tolerated it, really. And they were scared of him. They tried not to be, but it was not something they could control. It was a natural self-defense instinct. They couldn’t help it.  
There was none of that in Sherlock. Whether it was his level of trust for John or some kind of outcast solidarity, Sherlock knew that John was only dangerous when he wanted to be. And that he would rather die than hurt the ones he loved.  
John didn’t play hard to get for long. Just a few moments later he pressed his feet to Sherlock’s and warmed them up a little. Sherlock hummed in contentment.  
“You won’t be so happy about this when I get sick.”  
“Why? What happens?”  
“Same thing that happens to everyone else. I have a high temperature. It’s just…a little higher in my case.” John smiled sadly. “The first time I got a cold as a child, I burned a hole through my bed and almost set the house on fire. Now I just have to sit in a cold bath until I get better.”  
Sherlock raised his head to look at John. There was something between concern and contemplation on his face.  
“I have heat-resistant gloves.” His gaze drifted off. He appeared to be calculating, planning; his oval pupils widened to almost full circles in the low light. “I’m sure we could obtain some aramid for bedclothes.”  
“I’m not sure that’s very healthy.”  
“Oh, and sitting in cold water with a flu is?”  
John couldn’t hold back a giggle.  
“It’s okay, I don’t get sick very often.”  
“But it’s bound to happen at some point. We need to be prepared.”  
He rested his chin on John’s chest and continued to plan and run scenarios in his head, considering the best materials and where to get them. It was only after his internal shopping list was complete that he finally relaxed again.  
“We should really have these cushions replaced.” John’s fingers slid into the holes that Sherlock tore through the fabric of the couch during physical therapy.  
“Nah, let’s keep them.”  
“Why?”  
“No reason.”  
John’s expression softened into a light smile that was only visible in his eyes. He didn’t respond. Instead he sunk his fingers back into Sherlock’s hair, and minutes later they were both asleep, purring and snoring in a slightly discordant harmony. 

They never did replace the cushions. Not even when they moved out of 221B decades later and took the couch with them. Those little tears were a silent reminder of where it all began. Over the years the tears gradually got bigger, so eventually they finally had to patch them up, but they kept the cushions nonetheless. And whenever they faced difficulties, frustrating or terrifying experiences, they’d sit down on that couch, run their fingers over the damaged material, and feel a little rush of nostalgic comfort. Proof that together they could overcome just about anything, that sometimes to get through the hard times you need to cause and to suffer some damage, and that in the end, being worn and torn in a few places really isn’t always such a bad thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it.  
> Thank you so much for reading and commenting. You guys have been amazing. The comments on his fic were really deep and thought-provoking and I really appreciate them all. <3  
> I have a few other projects going both in this fandom and in MCU, but I'm not currently certain when I'll start posting something else next. Might be soon though. Here's my [Tumblr](http://faithsoprano.tumblr.com/), just in case.  
> Thanks again for reading! ^_^


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